


Dissonance

by Ellie5192



Series: A Little Light Music [8]
Category: Major Crimes (TV)
Genre: F/M, family times for everyone, sick Rusty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellie5192/pseuds/Ellie5192
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt from mandariins: “Sharon/Andy - late night shopping”</p><p>"It vaguely registers, as they let the sounds of the night settle over them, that their conversation sounds like two concerned parents negotiating their son. That neither of them feels put out by that is very telling."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dissonance

**Dissonance**

 

She hears the knock at the door and practically launches herself off the couch to answer it. Throwing the door open, she sags with relief when she sees who it is. He’s standing there looking thoroughly amused over hearing her run through the apartment, holding a plastic bag high near his face with a grin.

“Delivery” he sing-songs, swaying the bag a little.

“You’re amazing” she replies, deadpan, ushering him inside.

“I know” he fires back with innuendo, smirking, handing her the bag.

She ignores him completely, fishing out the pack of cigarettes and throwing them on the table with a confused frown, before reaching in and grabbing the Gatorade. She sets the bag on the table and disappears down the hall, knocking lightly on Rusty’s bedroom door before entering. He hears her speaking softly to him, and decides to follow her to find out why she had called him on his way home and begged for him to make a midnight run to the store.

“How’s the head now?”

“I still feel shaky, but the headaches gone”

“That’s good. Here, drink this. The electrolytes will help, trust me”

Andy stops at the doorway to see Sharon perched on the edge of Rusty’s bed, the boy fluffed up on his pillows, a damp washcloth over his head. His skin looks ashy and even from the door Andy can see he’s clammy and has a bit of the shakes.

When Sharon had called him to say she might not be in first thing the next morning, her voice calm and panicky at the same time, his heart had leapt high in his chest. Quick to reassure him, she explained that Rusty had experienced a fainting spell, probably brought on by an intense school exam period; too little sleep, too little food, and too much energy drink to compensate. He’d immediately offered to come over on his way home from a late shift, which she only accepted because she asked him to run to the store first.

He watches as she gently re-folds the washcloth, pours the last of the cold water out of the glass on the bedside table, and puts the cloth back on the boy’s head. She puts the empty glass down and encourages Rusty to drink some more of the Gatorade. For all her frantic panic out in the hall she is clam and sure; cool in a crisis.

“Hey Flynn” calls the boy, noticing him lingering in the doorway. He doesn’t seem surprised to see that their midnight rescuer is him.

“Heya kid. How’re feeling?”

“Like an idiot”

“You’re not an idiot, Rusty, you’ve just worked yourself a little too hard” she says. She feels his cheek with the back of her hand and checks his pulse at his wrist. She seems fairly practiced, or at least confident on how to handle the situation.

“I fainted, Sharon” he complains.

“Oh stop being so dramatic, you didn’t even lose consciousness” she chastises, picking up one of the dry crackers from the plate on the bedside table and thrusting it into his hand.

“Sharon, I’m not really-“

“If you don’t put something back in your stomach you’ll feel even worse in the morning. These won’t make you feel sick”

The boy knows a losing argument when he hears one, and dutifully chomps down. Picking up the empty water glass from the bedside table, she places the Gatorade bottle there instead.

“You okay?” she asks Rusty.

He nods weakly, and she runs her palm down the side of his face, giving him a half smile, encouraging him to lie further back into his pillows.

“I’ll be right outside- if you start feeling sick again, you call out”

“I will”

She eyeballs him playfully.

“I will” he calls again.

She nods at him with a smile.

It’s become somewhat of a ritual between them, the repetition. Rusty isn’t used to being genuinely cared for, though there were rare times in his childhood when his mother did genuinely show that she loved him. With Sharon, he is forced by her sheer stubbornness into the role of the child, and she makes sure to remind him at every opportunity that she doesn’t look after him for kicks; she honestly loves him like a son. She does it because of that love; because that’s what mothers do, or should do, or should want to do.

She caresses his cheek again and then stands, glass in hand, and walks out the door, Andy stepping out of her way.

They make their way to the kitchen again and Sharon picks up the discarded grocery bag, fishing out two blocks of chocolate and picking up the cigarette packet in the other hand, raising her eyebrow at him.

“Wasn’t sure of your de-stress poison” he says with a smile and a shrug.

She only gives a tiny grin to him, and puts one block in the fridge, before surprising him completely and carrying the other and the pack of smokes out to the patio. She practically swaggers past him, quirking her eyebrow and gesturing just barely for him to follow. For a moment he stands in open-mouthed shock, a grin slowly forming.

“You’re kidding” he says with a guffaw, not quite believing what he’s seeing.

He has noticed, over the course of the few times he’s been to her place, the scented candles and the organic meat, and even the half-hearted attempts to grow her own herbs on the patio. She’s mentioned gym, and he pictures yoga, and maybe a bit of swimming, and a jog here and there if she’s up to it. He imagines she uses eco-friendly fabric softener, forest-friendly pillowcases, and buys the farmer-owned milk, all because she’s both health conscious and can afford to be picky about it.

So to see her slide one of the doors open, step just outside, open the pack, pull out a cigarette and light it with practiced ease, blowing the first plume of smoke away from the open doorway… it nearly knocks him clear on his arse.

He just stands and stares at her for a moment, before slowly making his way over to join her, and he watches fascinated as she manages to hold the cigarette between two fingers, while using all her other digits to open the chocolate and break herself a piece. She offers him the chocolate with a smirk, and when he declines she holds out the pack of smokes instead. He declines that too. He was never much of a smoker, and an addict becomes wary of all those things once they’re on the right path. Best to quit everything and keep it that way.

“No way” he says, watching her take another puff.

She coughs once, eyeing the cigarette with mild suspicion, and then takes another drag, this time ghost inhaling and letting it escape to lessen the effects on her lungs. She’s obviously out of practice, but it looks natural enough that he imagines it’s been an on-and-off thing for many years.

“I was young once, and it was the seventies” she replies with a shrug.

He only nods. Everybody smoked then, particularly the men, and especially in the police force.

“Never regular, mind you” she adds, almost as an afterthought. “Only socially, or if my children were giving me a special brand of hell”

“Let me guess” he starts, waltzing fully out onto the patio. She steps one more pace outside the door, absently closing it almost completely behind her, conscious of the smoke permeating her perfectly scented home.

“End of a long day- jacket comes off-“ He flicks his hand out and flops into one of her deck chairs.

“Glass of wine from the fridge-“ He gestures towards her fridge, not quite visible in her kitchen from their angle.

“A single smoke to calm the nerves” He mimes lighting a cigarette and blowing out the smoke in an exaggerated fashion.

She giggles at him, a bona fide, honest to god giggle, and his derisive smirk turns into a grin.

“You forgot the trashy chick lit novel and the fluffy slippers, but yes, that’s about right”

“Sharon Raydor, rulebook junkie and health-nut, a closet smoker. What would people say if it got out”

“I’m sure it would be the real little scandal. Shall I call the presses?”

She takes another drag.

“You’re only smoking that to make a point to me” he says with an accusatory finger pointed at her, calling her out completely. “You haven’t smoked in years”

“True” she concedes, eyeballing him. “But it was worth it just to see your face”

He barks a laugh at her and shakes his head.

“And besides, I didn’t have my spare pack hidden in my cupboard. I threw my last one out when I got this place and haven’t bothered to replace it”

“I’m surprised you didn’t buy a whole box when the kid moved in”

She gives a humourless laugh, and then concedes defeat and stubs out the cigarette in an ashtray that’s hiding behind a potted plant. He almost asks why she still has it until he sees the finger-painting around the rough edges. She lowers herself into the other chair.

“Trust me, I was tempted. But, I’d given up for years at that point, and I was determined to give Rusty a completely new environment. I’d indulge in a glass of wine here and there, but I decided to forgo the cigarettes”

“Well done”

He could almost be mocking her, except she hears his sincerity, and she nods her thanks and leans her head back. He has come to recognise it as her ‘cleansing’ pose; her way of ridding herself of the day and finding her inner balance.

He imagines she’s done meditation, and then almost laughs at himself.

“So what happened with the kid?” he asks, his voice tinged with concern. Kids overwork themselves all the time at high school, but he doesn’t remember there being many fainting spells.

“Just a faint. I’ve had them a couple of times, my daughter had one when she was stressed in high school. I don’t think he’s been eating much during the day, and I’ve noticed he sometimes skips breakfast if he’s running late. And I know he doesn’t drink enough water. Little things, building up. I’ll keep an eye on it, make sure it’s only a one-off event”

“Good idea”

She opens her eyes and gives him a questioning look, not hostile, but perhaps concerned, like Andy’s noticed something she hasn’t.

“I don’t mean to sound tough, but a kid with his background; the life changes he’s going through, the pressure he puts himself under. It’s the right combination for either addiction or an eating disorder”

“Mmm-hmm, which is exactly why I’m going to be shovelling food and water down his throat come morning. I won’t tell the school, but if it happens again I’ll be taking more drastic measures”

Andy nods, accepting her judgement on the situation. He knows addiction very well, and Rusty doesn’t strike him as the kind of kid to go down that path and undo all the good he’s worked so hard for. But an eating disorder could creep up on him and develop without anyone noticing.

Still, he thinks, Sharon is the parent far more than he is, and he leaves it in her capable hands. She’s proven herself nothing short of saintly with the boy, helping him be the best he can possibly be while remaining supportive and respectful to his mother and his past; it’s been miraculous to consider it all in retrospect.

It vaguely registers, as they let the sounds of the night settle over them, that their conversation sounds like two concerned parents negotiating their son. That neither of them feels put out by that is very telling. In many ways, they are the two who have stepped up as pseudo-parents, with Buzz the annoyed older brother, and the rest of the squad the protective uncles and aunt. The debacle with Daniel Dunn only reinforced how much they’ve all come to care for the boy, and so no, it doesn’t feel strange to see himself step up into that father role. There have been better fathers, for sure, but as Daniel proved there are also worse. At least Rusty could learn from Andy’s experiences.

He sees her raise her hand to stifle a yawn, her eyes clenched shut, and he remembers that it was just after eleven thirty when she’d called him earlier that night. He doesn’t bother looking at the time to know that it’s very late.

“I should go, let you get some sleep”

She almost looks disappointed. In fact, he’s sure of it.

She stands and he follows, and she picks up the cigarettes and the chocolate to carry back inside.

“Thank you for bringing that over Andy, it was very generous of you”

“Hey, it was nothing”

“Still, I truly appreciate it”

She places the chocolate in the fridge and stashes the smokes on the top shelf of a corner cupboard, right at the back, only to be remembered in dire emergencies.

“Well, if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have learned your dirty little secret, would I? So really, I was doing myself a favour”

She only smirks at him as she tucks her hands in the pockets of her house jacket before walking towards the hall. “I’m just going to check on Rusty, make sure he hasn’t choked on a cracker”

She pads down the hall and he lazily follows to the entranceway, watching her sneak the door open, have a look, and then close it again, seemingly satisfied with what she sees.

“I hope the kid gets better. Text me tomorrow morning to let me know how he is” he says as she approaches again, wrapping the loose edges of her jacket tightly around herself.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine” she says, unconcerned. “But I will let you know before I come in if he’s okay to go to school”

He opens the door for himself and she grabs it to hold it as he steps into the hall and turns back to face her.

“Thanks again” she says softly.

“You’re welcome” he replies. He stands and looks at her for a brief second with a silly smile on his face, and tries to ignore the voice that tells him just how comfortable he’s becoming in her space; in her home; as a family with her foster son. “Sleep well” he says softly.

He turns on his heal and walks down the corridor before she can reply, which is a good thing, because the tenderness in his voice shocked her into a moment of silence.

He hears her faint ‘goodnight’ from down the hall, but at the risk of wanting the night to linger and end with him sleeping on her couch like a lost puppy, he pretends he doesn’t hear, and is relieved when he hears the click of her safety latch just as he’s reaching the staircase.

He lets out a breath and shakes his head as he jogs down the stairs, silently admonishing himself.

He’s getting too close. He’s getting too comfortable, not just with her as a friend, but with everything. He’s starting to see her home as an extension of his own life. He feels welcome enough to meander down her hallway and watch her tend to a sick child; a child that is neither of theirs, and yet feels like he belongs right beside them.

He feels a certain peace being able to sit in her quiet company and let silence descend, words superfluous to the contentment growing between them.

If it was just attraction, or pure lust, he thinks that would be safer- it would be familiar ground to want to sleep with her to dispel the tension and then move on; to merely see her as a pair of legs, a nice arse and a sexy rack.

But to want to linger. To want to spend time with her simply for the pleasure of her company. To want to come over and cook dinner and hear all about Rusty’s day at school and help the boy with homework and stack the dishwasher and sit outside talking about everything and nothing. To hold her as she cries and yell at her knowing full well they’ll make up the next day. That feeling has settled deep inside him, and he’s not sure when it began, but he think it’s might have been sometime around the weeks he started bringing her tea on the regular, and spending late nights pondering cases in her office. It’s a feeling that now has weight, every incident since then adding a little more to it. It has settled in his bones and become his DNA.

It feels wonderful.

It feels dangerous.

It feels like this could turn into a hot fucking mess. 

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t claim to be a medical expert, and all advice given in this chapter is anecdotal evidence drawn from personal experience.   
> As always I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think.


End file.
